Not bad

Three days later.

Their instructor was a strict, no-nonsense type who didn't bother with philosophical speeches or colorful descriptions. Instead, they were focused on something far more practical—close-quarters combat techniques.

The room was a vast hall, padded on all sides for safety, with various weapons hanging neatly on racks along the walls. Several cadets were already partnered up, sparring under the watchful eyes of assistant trainers.

Elijah stretched his arms, feeling the weight of the practice gauntlets he was required to wear. They were heavier than he expected, designed to test both strength and endurance.

"Alright, cadets," the instructor barked. "Pair up. Today's focus is on disarming and subduing an opponent. Speed, precision, and adaptability are key. If you're slow, you're dead. If you're careless, you're dead. If you hesitate…"

"You're dead?" Visconti muttered under his breath, earning a suppressed chuckle from Elijah.

The instructor's sharp eyes landed on them. "Something funny, cadet?"

Visconti and Elijah straightened immediately. "No, sir!"

"Good. Because if you think this is a joke, you can volunteer to demonstrate for the class."

Elijah gave Visconti a sideways glance. "You'd better keep quiet unless you want to end up on the mat."

Visconti grinned. "Relax. I'd win, anyway."

Before Elijah could respond, the instructor clapped his hands. "Elijah! Visconti! Since you seem to have so much to say, you'll demonstrate the first drill. Get on the mat."

Elijah sighed, stepping forward with Visconti. "You had to jinx it," he muttered.

"I live to entertain," Visconti replied with a smirk.

The instructor stood between them, holding up a practice knife. "The goal is simple. One of you will attack; the other will disarm. Don't hold back, but remember, this is training. If I see anyone pulling punches, you'll regret it." He tossed the knife to Elijah. "You're the attacker first."

Elijah sighed as he tightened his grip on the practice knife, its dull weight reassuring in his hand.

Beside him, Visconti rolled his shoulders, a confident smirk tugging at his lips.

"Let's see what you've got," Visconti said, his tone teasing.

Elijah just shook his head, stepping into position. The two squared off, their stances low and poised, each measuring the other with calculating eyes.

"Begin!"

Elijah lunged first, his movements quick and decisive.

The knife came in a swift arc aimed at Visconti's side.

Visconti sidestepped gracefully, his footwork fluid as he dodged the blade.

"Too slow," Visconti taunted, shifting to Elijah's blind spot.

Elijah adjusted immediately, spinning on his heel to meet Visconti's approach.

He swung the knife again, feinting left before driving it toward Visconti's shoulder.

This time, Visconti caught his wrist mid-strike.

"Gotcha," Visconti said, his grip firm.

But Elijah wasn't done.

With a sharp twist of his arm and a pivot of his hips, he broke free, his movements seamless.

The knife was back in position, the blade angled just enough to keep Visconti on edge.

"Not bad," Elijah said, a rare smirk appearing on his face.

"Not bad? That was textbook perfect," Visconti shot back, narrowing his eyes.

Their exchange drew the attention of the other cadets, who began whispering amongst themselves.

The two clashed again, their movements a blur of strikes and counters.

Elijah's attacks were direct and aggressive, each swing of the knife aimed to force Visconti into retreat.

But Visconti was no slouch.

He read Elijah's movements like a book, blocking and parrying with ease, his footwork deliberate and measured.

The watching cadets murmured amongst themselves.

"They're pretty good," someone said.

"Did you see that counter? Elijah's faster than he looks," one whispered

"Yeah, but Visconti's a Tactician. He's just analyzing Elijah's patterns," another replied.

Elijah ignored the voices, his focus narrowing to the match.

He saw Visconti's faint hesitation—a shift in weight on his back foot. Recognizing the opportunity, Elijah lunged again, this time feinting to the left.

As Visconti moved to block, Elijah twisted mid-step, spinning to the right and driving the practice knife toward his shoulder.

The maneuver caught Visconti off guard, and Elijah managed to tap the practice knife against his shoulder.

The dull blade tapped against Visconti's padded uniform.

"Point," the instructor called out.

Visconti sighed, shaking his head. "Lucky shot."

Elijah raised an eyebrow. "Was it?"

Before Visconti could retort, the instructor clapped his hands. "Switch roles! Visconti, you're the attacker."

Visconti picked up the practice knife, his movements deliberate as he tested its weight. "Your turn to keep up," he said, his tone playful.

Visconti moved fast, his strikes precise and calculated. He came at Elijah with a quick jab to the chest, followed by a feint to the right.

Elijah dodged the jab and stepped back, narrowly avoiding the blade as it swung past his side.

"Impressive," Visconti muttered, his eyes narrowing. "You're quick."

He parried the next strike with a sharp upward block, redirecting the knife's trajectory.

"Thanks," Elijah replied, his tone dry.

The two danced across the mat, their movements fluid and sharp.

Visconti pressed the attack, his strikes relentless as he tried to find an opening.

Elijah, however, held his ground, his defense tight and composed.

Then, Visconti made a mistake—a slightly overextended strike.

Elijah saw his chance and stepped in, grabbing Visconti's wrist.

With a swift twist and a calculated sweep of his leg, he sent Visconti stumbling.

The practice knife clattered to the ground.

Their match ended with Elijah managing to disarm Visconti, but just barely. The instructor nodded approvingly. "Good work. Both of you. Now, pair up with someone else and keep practicing."

As they stepped off the mat, Visconti nudged Elijah. "Alright, I'll admit it. You've got some skills."

Elijah shrugged, handing the knife back to the instructor. "You're not so bad yourself."

Visconti smirked. "I'll take that as a compliment."